Big Brother
by Poisoned Scarlet
Summary: In which Soul remembers his childhood, only this time it doesn't hurt him. It can't anymore, not with her by his side.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own Soul Eater

**Big Brother  
by. **_Poisoned Scarlett_

"Soul," she sighs, kneeling in front of him. Her skirt is wine red and drawn tight around her thighs, something his father intermittently brought up with furrowed brows and a deep frown. His mother's lips are a vibrant shade of red and whenever they curve over his name, he can only think of how disappointed they must look. "Soul, do this for me. Get on stage and play, okay? You're almost up. You have to go play, _sweetheart_," she smiles comfortingly and the adoration in the name is almost enough to give him courage. Almost. "You have to do this for me."

"I..I don't want to," he squeaks out and tenses when he hears his mother breathe out of her nose. It is never a good sign.

"Soul," she says, firmly. Her eyes are hard. Soul can't look into them. "You can do this. You've been practicing for _weeks_ with Wes! There is no reason for you not to be able to go on stage tonight."

"I just…" Soul struggles. "It's not the same! This is _bigger_ than all the other times! There are a lot of people!"

"It's bigger because you're _better_ now," she asserts. Soul recoils.

"But father says he played it better than me when he was my age! He says I can be better and that's why Wes is going to that _school_ in England without me," he protests with bitter eyes.

His mother falters, annoyance drained. She's kneeling now, dirtying her pretty skirt. Soul feels bad. "No, _no_, sweetheart, you _are_ good. We all think so, especially your father. You know that, right?" He nods because he just wants her to be happy, not disappointed. He hates disappointing his mother—his father—his brother—_everyone_. He's not ready, no, he wants to go home and bury himself in his pillows but he can't because he has to do this. He has to, like his mother always says. "Good! See? Wes might go to that school this year, but you'll follow him when you're older! Okay? Now, hurry up, it's almost time!"

He doesn't budge.

His mother nudges him a little. "Soul?"

"Okay…" Soul hunches over to the back of the stage slowly. His heart is in his throat, his hands are shaking, and he feels like he wants to keel over and vomit out his dinner. But he doesn't want to disappoint his mother, father, brother. He wants to be good; he wants to play like his father says he _could_, like his mother says he _should_, and like his brother believes he _can. _

After Soul sets up his music sheets in the right order and goes over them a few times, his hands sweaty but not as shaky anymore, he goes to tell his mother that he _might_ be able to do it after all—

"He's not cut out for this, Will, it isn't healthy for him. He has nightmares," his mother tells his father, her arms crossed over her chest. Her manicured fingers are toying with the faux-fur shrug, her white hair tied up in an elegant bun on the top of her head. His father has his back turned to her, shoulders strong in his tuxedo. Soul can't help but to think how dumb he must look in his own tuxedo compared to him. "He's not like Wes! You can't force him to be like him! He's his own person," she insists. "And he doesn't like performing in front of crowds."

"He just has a little stage fright," his father brushes off. "Better to break him out of it now than later."

"He is _nine years old, _William!" She finally snaps, her pretty face contorted into rage. "He's been performing since he was six and he's told us he doesn't like it, isn't it time for us to listen to him?"

"He's fine—he's just a little _nervous_, it happens to all of us, Cella, now go to the back and make sure he has everything in order! If this performance doesn't go well, Wesley can kiss his chances of being accepted into—"

"You're right, this is _Wesley's_ performance, not Soul's, so why is he even here? Anyone else could have accompanied Wes, you know that!"

"Because it's better if _they _do it, Marcella, Christ, they're brothers!"

"_Soul doesn't like it!_" she shrieks.

He finally turns and Soul shrinks away, frightened. His father is intimidating and awful sometimes with the things he yells at his mother and at him and at his brother. He isn't always like this and he always apologizes afterwards, face in his hands, shoulders hunched, and his mother tells him nothing is wrong—_he just has a bad temper, sweetheart, he'll be okay once he drinks some water—_but Wes always turns away from their father and the shadows cut over his brother's face ominously, darkly, during those times.

Soul doesn't want to know any more than that.

"_Be quiet_! Fine, go get him off the fucking stage then, Marcella! Get him _out of here if you don't want him to perform so badly_!" He scorns, pointing a rigid finger to the curtains. Soul hides, still listening, heart pounding. "You're right—he's not Wes, he'll_ never be as good at him! _He's just—musically incompetent, his composing is terrible and, you're right," he continues, interrupting his mother's outraged gasps, "he will never follow his brother to England. He can't, he's too soft for that type of criticism. _He's_ _not good enough!"_

"How—don't you ever SAY THAT ABOUT HIM!" His mother snarls, covering her mouth with a hand to stop herself from saying anymore. She can feel eyes on her already.

Soul's eyes are blurry, hot, and they sting awfully. He stumbles back and stifles his furious sobs in his sleeve because _he knew it! _He knew he wasn't good enough, he knew they were just forcing on smiles and pretending he was! He hates them, he hates music, he hates his piano, and he _hates, hates, hates _how he was born without any sort of musical talent like they all were—how he's the black sheep in the family, how he just doesn't fit in with his _stupid_ white hair and red eyes and _dumb, dumb, dumb _TEETH BECAUSE NOT ONLY CAN HE NOT PLAY, BUT HE ISN'T NORMAL-LOOKING EITHER—

"Soul, it's almost time! Sou—hey, are you okay? Are you _crying_—?" Wes grabs his shoulder and gasps when something slices his palm. He stumbles back, shocked, holding his wrist, and Soul is mortified. Soul feels his entire world stop so suddenly, he chokes. Soul backs up into the wall, his brother's name a stutter on his lips, and Wes stares at him. "Your shoulder," Wes begins, shakily, "there's a _knife_ coming out of your shoulder!"

"N-no there isn't!" Soul grabs his shoulder and feels it—a thick blade, but it doesn't cut him, it's dull—and it sinks back into his flesh when he tries to grab onto it. "I, uh, I don't know what that was! But it wasn't my fault! I don't know how it happened!"

Wes rubs his palm on his slacks and stands up straight. "Soul, that…that..."

"I'm sorry!" Soul blurts out. "I don't know how…dad was talking with mom and they—I'm not gonna' perform with you, dad says I'm not good enough." He lowers his head, his chest heavy. He's not angry anymore, he feels terrible, and his brother's hand is bleeding. _His brother's hand!_ He _needs_ them to perform, he messed everything up like he always does! What was wrong with him, why was he such a letdown—?

"It's okay," Wes pats his head gently. Soul stiffens. He looks up and his brother his smiling lopsidedly. "I'm fine. See? It's just a paper cut!" He shows him a thin slice on his palm that is barely bleeding. The panic in Soul's chest halves and he feels lighter than he has all night. "You didn't get me that bad. Lucky you, eh?" Wes ruffles his brother's hair and Soul tries to push his face out of his brother's stomach, muffling out whines of his name, but he stops when he manages a peek at his face.

Wes is looking out the curtain to where their parents are still arguing, eyes that blank shade of dark red that makes Soul nervous. His face isn't welcoming like it usually is: it's icy and the darkness he finds in his brother's eyes speaks volumes of how fragmented his family really is.

"Wes?"

"Don't listen to him," he says instead, tightening his grip on his brother's shoulders.

"What?"

"Don't listen to father. He doesn't—" Wes stops himself, softens his tone when he looks down into his younger siblings sad eyes. "I don't believe that people are born into this world for no reason," he tells him instead, kneeling in front of him. He has both his hands on his shoulders, the shoulders that had once tried to injure him. "What you just did, there's a name for it. It's rare, but not unusual. Our grandfather on our mother's side was a Weapon but mother didn't inherit the Weapon trait. She thought one of us had, but since we didn't show any signs when we were younger, she didn't think it was necessary to have someone tutor us on how to control it. But you _do_ have it, you can transform into a Weapon," he grins. "That's super cool, Soul, you're a Weapon!"

"Weapon…?" Soul repeats. He doesn't wholly comprehend how a simple word could make him feel so _free _but he's not about to dig deeper into it. "I'm a Weapon?"

"Yes. But you're also a musician," Wes tells him firmly. "You're _both_."

"But dad…"

"Y'know how there's all sorts of people in the world?" Wes says, suddenly. "Some people like classical, some people hate it? Like how Uncle Roddy hates 80's music but he really likes punk rock? It's the same thing. Dad might not like the music you play, but others will. I like it."

"Yeah, right," Soul snubs, sending his brother a flat look.

"Okay, sometimes. But I do!" Wes insists. "And someday someone will really, _really_ like the music you play and they'll wanna' hear it all the time. And when you find that person, you keep them close to you, alright?" He looks him in the eye as he says this. "They're a special person."

"But what if I never find that person—?"

"SOUL, WAKE UP, YOU IDIOT!"

Soul's eyes snap open and he bolts upright, the tear of sheets barely registering.

"About time! You shouldn't sleep so late, we have a mission briefing today, remember?" Maka taps her foot impatiently on the floor, already showered and dressed. Soul is vaguely aware of his rumpled shirt and the drool running down the side of his chin. "Get up so we can—oh, no, you tore through your sheets again!" Maka groans, slapping a hand over her face. Soul blinks once, twice, then looks down to find his scythe mutilating his sheets and part of his pillow. He sighs and shifts his scythe back into his skin, rubbing his hands over his damp face as Maka mutters about going to the thrift store to buy more sheets for him because he goes through him faster than Dr. Stein goes through cigarettes. "Are you okay?"

Soul glances at her and nods. That was a strange dream to have; he hasn't had dreams about his family since he was fourteen. It's old news. He's a Death Scythe now and most definitely not as useless as he once believed he was. He looks over at Maka, his brother's words slipping from his consciousness as the dream became nothing more than hazy images and sharp pains in his heart. "I'm fine. I'll be out in ten minutes."

Maka grabs his elbow when he slides past her, her jade eyes wide with worry. "Are you sure? You don't transform in your sleep unless you're having a bad dream."

He's a little surprised she knows that, but the corners of his lips tilt up into a small smile at it. He ruffles her hair. She doesn't have it tied up in pigtails, but rather down her back with what he calls her mini "braid crown" to keep her hair from getting in her face. "Don't worry about it, Maka, I don't even remember it anymore."

"Are you sure?" Maka squints at him.

"Yep." He grins down at her, letting his fingers casually comb through her hair as she takes his word for it and smiles back up at him. "By the way, your hair looks like shit."

Maka blinks, reaches up to pet her hair, and then screeches that he _ruined her braids AGAIN _and he has to sprint to the bathroom before she catches up to him. But it's worth it; it's always worth it. She's always worth it because he has found that special person who appreciates his music, _himself,_ after all.

He found her and just like his brother told him, he never let go.


End file.
